Wilf, A Caravan and Comedy Box Sets

I seriously cannot wait: Wilf has booked a week in a two berth caravan for us next week and as a special treat, has bought box sets of the 1980s comedies Sorry plus Terry and June.  This is because he wishes to become a comedy writer and as a result keeps a detailed list of all of the funny lines in every show ever broadcast from 1985 onwards.  This of course takes time, but apparently he fits it into his schedule by condensing his hygiene routine into a daily 20 minute slot.  I fear that I must either be deeply in love with him or failing that, settling for company now I've reached the grand old age of 43.  Sigh.

A Weekend with Wilf

Yes, by the process of default I am back with Wilf and to prove it he's lolling on the sofa watching the VH1 Saturday Night 80s Disco programme I recorded last night.  So, am I happy?  Well, I guess so, yes - it's very much a case of better the devil you know and of course, I'm not referring to the Stock, Aitken and Waterman track which has been admirably covered by Kylie and Steps.  Mother is returning to the UK next week to take full advantage of the free NHS hip replacement she's due; to be fair though, Mother paid her taxes for many years, so she's entitled to at least 47% of her body to be replaced by the year 2020. 

Wilf now works as a peripatetic tour guide, which is nice for him I suppose.  He's kind of popular in the Derbyshire region if that makes any sense.  Since leaving the civil service he's not really made that much progress, despite asking the bank for a series of loans to fund various business ventures such as starting his own honeybee colony in Gants Hill, building a fibreglass spaceship in nearby rented garage to rival the Virgin Galactic craft and last, but not least, running all nude bus tours in his Routemaster Bus, Mavis.  Actually, the last one was vetoed by the Preservation of Routemaster Bus Upholstery Society because it posed danger to the 1950s synthetic fibres caused by sweaty dewflap syndrome, something suffered by a whole host of transport and nudity fans.

I do appreciate his company though and he's very neat and tidy, which is a lovely trait in this day and age.  His mother used to chase him around the house with a damp cloth, so he's always appreciated a spick and span environment.  However, when he visits my cousin Eleanor's house he always informs me that he's keen to bring his own dustbuster and polish along to make him feel more comfortable in her somewhat messy and chaotic household.

The Return of Wilf

I am writing this whilst Wilf is sleeping in my bed - don't ask my why, but I have just had sexual relations with him.  Let us wind back a few hours to when we first met this morning at 11:30am.  I haven't seen him in quite a few months and I must confess that he looked rather good - he'd lost weight and was wearing a set of clothes which were much trendier than anything I'd ever seen him wear in the past.  He drove me to a nearby country park and we stopped off at the cafe for some refreshment and I noticed how twinkly his green eyes were when juxtaposed with the white light reflecting off of the formica table.  We then took a constitutional around the aforementioned park and Wilf took my arm at various points when we were negotiating an uneven surface.

We then drove back to my flat and I cooked dinner.  It would have been nice to cook Wilf a full Sunday Roast, but there wasn't time, so I fell back on my talents and produced a dish which included chicken breasts, pepper and thyme.  We also drank a bottle of red wine and it slipped down nicely, especially when accompanied by the Bird's Raspberry Trifle I'd made a day previously.  We then sat on the sofa and watched my DVD box set of Ever Decreasing Circles and whilst we were laughing at Howard and Hilda's selection of quirky knitwear, Wilf made his move. 

Readers, I let him and yes, it was consensual.  We then moved towards the bedroom and it was over in a total of eight minutes and twenty four seconds.  It was quite enjoyable and he had a bit of a fumble with my lower regions, but there was nothing he could do to tip me over the orgasmic edge - only a battery powered implement and a signed photograph of Nick Knowles can do that.  Well, usually anyway.

Margaret's sore throat

Firstly, I have no idea why I've decided to title my email in the third person - have I got 'tickets' on myself I wonder?  Maybe.  Anyway, sufficed to say that there's a huge Margaret-sized lump on my sofa caused by me taking the best part of the week off sick with a cold/throat thing.  I suppose that it's seen as a bonus by some that my speech is limited, especially at work which is becoming increasingly silent these days.  Ho hum.

I am putting on weight - give it a few more weeks and I'll be as lardy as Cousin Eleanor and that's never a good thing.  The trouble is that I get addicted to things such as watching Pointless on BBC1 each night (oh how I love Richard Osman!) and the biscuits my friend Emma brought round the other night which she'd bought from Waitrose are simply divine.  I am also very into reading comedians' biographies, despite me not really having much of a sense of humour myself. 

Fifteen minutes until my pie, mash and vegetables are ready then it's another blissful night in front of the TV for Margaret.  Hurrah.  Who needs a man when you've pastry and a V+ remote control?  Talking of such things I'm meeting Wilf on Saturday for old times sake.  Sigh.

Eastbourne - God's Waiting Room?

I have taken the day off of work today to recover from my weekend in Eastbourne with Eleanor.  I did enjoy it if I'm honest, but I have made a few notes about how to improve such an experience in the future:

• I prefer to travel by car as trains vex me - the thought of being pressed up against a stranger for an hour or more is very worrying - I can only get through my 39 minute train commute (each way!) by placing a copy of either The Metro or the London Evening Standard between myself and the adjoining passenger.

• B&Bs shouldn't be too much of a walking distance from the station as I don't like to waste money on taxis

• Double duvets are better on single beds than their 3ft counterparts simply because there's a lot more scope for wrapping one's body inside like the sausagemeat filling in the aforementioned unhealthy snack

• Guests located in the room above should keep their voice(s) down and preferably shut up altogether after midnight - jabbering on until 12:45 is wholly unacceptable

•  Young people/teenagers shouldn't ride their bicycles dangerously fast along the seafront, thus ruining an evening constitutional

Apart from the points raised above, it was great.  Eleanor seemed keen to get home then and when I mentioned the possibility of arranging a future trip to Hastings she simply sighed and placed her head in her hands.  

Eye Level

I expect you're all wondering 'why doesn't Margaret write much any more?' and you'd be right on the money, but the truth is, I don't have much time these days.  I've just returned home from work and am typing this whilst listening to an array of TV theme tunes on my laptop.  Why?  You may ask and well, the reasoning behind it is nostalgia, well that and the fact that my parents used to boost their music collection by purchasing cassette tapes with such endearing titles as The Greatest TV Theme Album in the World Ever (Vol 6) and continually playing them in the car; that said, Father stopped listening to music whilst driving many years ago when he found that it distracted him from the road.

So, what am I up to for the weekend then?  Well, I'm off to Eastbourne with Eleanor for a trip - her parents are having young Sebastian to stay with them, so it's a girlie time.  It's a little chilly though so I'm packing enough cardigans to keep myself warm.  Hopefully the train won't be full of louts - I do so hate that! 

Maundy Thursday: Margaret's Maundy Money

I'm not sure if you're aware of my own annual tradition of Margaret's Maundy Money but if you're not, I'll explain a little.  Basically, I take all of my loose change to the bank which I've amassed during the past year and change it into 50 pence pieces.  I then place these in a secure hessian shopping bag and head for the town centre where I'll hand them out to deserving causes.  One year a PCSO was called to the scene because there was a bit of a scuffle for the last coins and an altercation started to boil over into near-anarchy.  Anyway, since then it's been a fairly easy process.

I can't say that I relish washing the feet of the poor, but I carry out this task in the local old people's home every other Sunday.  I hope by reading this you'll discover what a lovely and well-rounded citizen I am.  I don't do it for myself of course, but the buzz that the random acts of kindness create reverberates around my acrylic clad body.

Margaret: March 2013

Yes, I know I never blog any more, but there you go - an oversight on my part.  I am back, well, by popular demand if truth be told.  So, what's happening I've no doubt you're wondering and you're right to.  Well, I am still living in a flat, but I've moved further down the parade to an 'apartment' over the charity shop if you really want to know?

Mother's still living out of the area: she's moved to Bournemouth and runs an 'alternative' B&B for 'discerning customers' and by those, she means naturists.  I haven't a clue why, I mean she was reluctant to remove her vest until May when we all lived together, but they say divorce changes things.

Father's still an inpatient in the home for human earthworms and it doesn't seem as though he'll ever be released.  He escaped three months ago and slithered across an ice rink before he was netted and returned to a padded tank. 

Eleanor - well, there's another story.  I'll speak to her and ask her to update you.